Only the Lonely
by sherlocked4eva
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper are both lonely people, maybe they have more in common than they first realised? Rated M for possible later content
1. Chapter 1

_Dear reader, thank you for taking the time to read my first Sherlock fanfic! I'm a huge fan of the show and a particular obsessive of Mycroft Holmes, hence the focus of my story._

_I am actually a seasoned fanfic writer and have written a lot before, but I wanted to start a new profile on here as part of my new wave of writing. I hope to add more stories in time; I am also working on a Mystrade for you slash fans out there!_

_I love this little idea I've had for this fic but am not honestly sure if it works for other people? Therefore I'm sharing chapter 1 before writing any further to get a taste for whether anyone likes the concept._

_Please, please help me decide the future of this story by reviewing, I would so love to get some comments from fellow readers and writers._

_I sincerely hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

Mycroft awoke abruptly as the mobile phone by his head began to ring. The phone was answered before the second ring had finished; Mycroft had experienced enough disturbed nights during his many years of government service and was by now well attuned to being awoken at all hours. He squinted at the clock by his bedside as he answered the call - 3.08am. This was definitely important; nobody would ring him at this time unless it was urgent.

"Yes?" he said into the receiver. "What's happened?"

"Sorry to wake you up, Sir," came the calm, cool reply. Mycroft immediately recognised the voice as Anthea, his reliable and dependable personal assistant. Anybody needing to get hold of him in hurry would naturally arrange contact through Anthea first.

"I'm afraid it's a Code Red situation sir," Anthea continued. "Highest level alert, verified as genuine and not a hoax or rehearsal of procedure. We've received news that the Foreign Secretary has been shot dead. The crime scene has been sealed, but no action has been taken with regards to anything else. You are needed, Sir, immediately, the Prime minister has requested you to action all the necessary protocol."

Mycroft was out of bed and heading towards the bathroom as he spoke.

"Arrange my car, Anthea," he said as he switched on the light of his gleaming white bathroom suite. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Thank you Sir, I'll organise that immediately," Anthea replied, before hanging up the phone.

Mycroft was always prepared for a crisis; his job required him to be on permanent alert. His job was not really a job at all; it was his entire life and everything he did every single day revolved around his work. Mycroft was never off duty. Even for somebody with his seasoned experience of handling problems, Anthea's news had come as quite a shock. The murder of such a high profile politician was going to be colossal news, the media would be absolutely hysterical when they found out. This was going to involve considerable work.

Mycroft was adept at getting ready in exceptional fast speed. He climbed into his shower and spent a quick two minutes soaping himself under the torrent of water. He dried his body quickly, brushed his teeth, arranged his hair and dressed. He selected a deep grey charcoal coloured suit with a white shirt and black tie. He suspected that it would be sensible to have a sombre outfit on for the hours ahead which would no doubt involve some extremely intense conversations. He was ready within ten minutes, and could hear his car pulling up just as he was double checking the contents of his briefcase and tying his shoe laces. He checked his mobile as he locked the front door. Whilst he had been getting ready, emails and text messages had been arriving at an alarming rate. All would be dealt with in due course, Mycroft's primary aim was to address the sudden crisis and tackle everything in a logical order.

It was a long and tedious morning for Mycroft, it wasn't until around 10am that he finally felt some semblance of order has been established and calmness was finally beginning to take control. When he had first arrived at his office, the place was in pandemonium. Mycroft was grateful that amongst the various people going utterly berserk, he had organised and efficient Anthea by his side to help address the situation. Mycroft had made more telephone calls than he could count - to the Prime minister, deputy Prime minister, Home Secretary, Defence Minister, Commissioner of Police, Mayor of London, director of the secret service, the Queen's personal secretary. All London emergency services had been placed on the highest alert and security at government buildings had been increased. Mycroft had written a carefully worded press release to be issued to the media, telling them the barest facts necessary whilst avoiding any speculation or detail as to how serious the situation was. By mid morning he had had enough; his head ached and his jaw was sore from continuous talking. But overall, Mycroft was satisfied that, as usual, he had responded to the problem with ruthless efficiency. All that remained now was to begin the investigation into what had happened to the Foreign Secretary, a task which would include the involvement of his brother.

"I don't care about his manner or methods," the Prime minister had barked down the telephone," get Sherlock down to the morgue to look at the body as quick as you can. We need to catch whoever is behind this and lock them up before anything else comes of it. This is going to make international news, Mycroft, the government has to be seen to be catching the people responsible immediately."

"Leave it to me," replied Mycroft, "as soon as we have a little order amongst the chaos, I'll fetch Sherlock myself and get his take on what has happened."

Mycroft was by now in his car being taken directly to Baker Street. When he arrived at Sherlock's flat, he climbed out of the car slightly wearily, the lack of sleep and frantic morning beginning to catch up on him. He hoped Sherlock would be in one his cooperative moods; Mycroft did not feel in the mood for an argument or game of deductions.

Mycroft entered the flat to find Sherlock sitting at the desk, rifling through a book. John was sat at the kitchen table, typing quickly on his laptop. Upon seeing Mycroft, John raised a hand in greeting and pointed at the kettle.

"Morning Mycroft," John said cheerfully, "cup of coffee?"

"Nice to see you again, John," Mycroft replied politely, smiling slightly as he spoke. He liked John a great deal and privately believed his solid demeanour and sensible approach to life was an excellent influence on his slightly wayward younger brother. "Coffee would be much appreciated, but unfortunately, myself and Sherlock have an urgent situation to discuss."

"And what would that be?" said Sherlock, not bothering to look up from his book. "The tiredness in your voice Mycroft, and your desire for caffeine suggests you've been working extensively this morning, despite it not even being close to lunchtime. That suggests you were dragged into the office much earlier than expected, meaning there is some sort of crisis afoot, probably involving a matter of national and government security, the only circumstances under which someone of your position would be hauled into work at short notice."

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"Am I correct?"

"You are indeed, Sherlock," said Mycroft, "well deduced."

"Not really," said Sherlock, "we do have such a thing as a television here, Mycroft. The news of the Foreign Secretary's death wasn't exactly easy to miss."

John gave a stifled chuckle of laughter. Mycroft could not be bothered to pursue the point any further. Under the circumstance, he was content to let Sherlock win this round of banter.

"Will you come?" Mycroft asked.

"Me?" asked Sherlock with mock disbelieve. "Why would you possibly need me?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and glared at his younger brother with impatience.

"I think you know exactly why, dear brother," Mycroft said sternly. "Get your coat please. The mortuary will be expecting us."

Molly hung up her coat and looked around listlessly, her mind still totally disconnected from work. This was her first day back after an eleven day absence; she had never had such a prolonged period of time off before, everything had happened so quickly and now she was back, expected to get on with life but feeling completely unprepared. Mentally and emotionally, she was completely drained.

She entered the office where she compiled all her autopsy reports and found her heart warmed by the sight which greeted her. A small pile of cards, probably around a dozen, a pretty collection of pink and blue and white envelopes. Two bunches of flowers, both beautiful and tied with white ribbons. And a small parcel, presumably a gift, with a card attached.

Sitting at the desk, Molly opened the cards one by one and read each message, every one strengthening her shattered heart ever so slightly.

_Dearest Molly, so sorry to hear of your loss, thinking of you always, Catherine...Dear Molly, deepest sympathies for you at this sad time, lots of love from Greg and all your friends at the yard...To Molly, I was so sad to hear of your loss, we are always here for you whenever you need us, love from John._

Molly smiled to herself. It was times like this that you discovered who your friends really were, when you saw who was prepared to help you in times of great need. Molly was surrounded by death every day; it was something she understood and could deal with even in the most horrific of circumstances. She had already gone through the loss of grandparents, but nothing could have prepared her for the death of her mother.

Molly wondered if the hollow empty pain she was feeling right now would ever subside. At least mum's death had been quick, it had been a blessing really for the terminal diagnosis to come so quickly before the end. For mum to have suffered for months and months under the terrible knowledge that it was never going to get any better would have been unbearable. At least the pain was now gone and the end had been swift.

Molly flicked again through the cards, making a mental note of who she needed to thank and contact.

Nothing from Sherlock.

Molly knew she should not be disappointed, but deep down she was saddened to see no kind words from him. Writing a card would probably not even occur to Sherlock, it simply was not in his nature to think about others in that way. Maybe he didn't know and had not heard yet? Molly knew that was unlikely. If John and Greg had known and sent cards, one of them must have mentioned it to Sherlock. Molly knew she was foolish to keep expecting something from a man who so clearly did not reciprocate her feelings, but trying not to feel as she did was easier said than done.

Molly had not yet had a chance to check what was happening in the mortuary that morning when she heard the swing of the doors and voices entering the building. She walked into the mortuary to find Sherlock and his brother being shown in by an attendant. Her stomach flipped as her eyes met Sherlock's, his tousled black hair and deep eyes weakening her body as they always managed to do.

"Hello Molly," said Sherlock briskly, "haven't seen you in a few days. Been on holiday?"

Molly's insides felt as if they had been crushed. Logically he must have been told of her recent bereavement, had he simply forgotten?

"No," Molly stammered, "I've had some family issues to attend to."

"Hmmmm, sounds boring," replied Sherlock flippantly, his interest now drawn to the corpse laid out on the examination table they were surrounding.

Molly had to bite her lip to stop herself from retorting. Did he have any idea what he was saying? She suddenly noticed that the other Holmes brother was looking at her in a questioning manner, his eyebrows raised as if trying to work out the problem before him. She turned away feeling embarrassed, although slightly comforted that at least one person present seemed aware that all was not right.

"So what so far can you tell us about the murder of our dear political friend here?" asked Sherlock, his eyes scanning quickly over the body of the poor dead man on the table.

"Er, let me just look," said Molly, quickly flicking through the notes in front of her. She was completely unprepared and had not read any of the report done by the preliminary examiner. Her eyes scanned the notes urgently, hoping that key facts would jump out at her, but she could not seem to focus on the information. Her chest began to tighten with stress as she heard Sherlock sighing impatiently.

"Come on, Molly," he said abruptly, "haven't you got anything to help us out?"

"Sorry Sherlock," she mumbled, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, "I've only just got in and haven't looked though this properly. Do we know the victim's name yet?"

There was an awkward silence as Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes exchanged glances. Molly could clearly see that she had said something wrong.

"Good Lord Molly, I though even you might recognise one of our most important cabinet ministers," Sherlock scoffed mockingly. His eye was suddenly drawn to a mark of the victim's neck.

"Perhaps you need to continue that holiday, I'm not sure a break from work has done you much good," Sherlock said as he studied the patch of skin that had caught his interest.

Molly's eyes filled with tears. She had to get away from them both before she completely embarrassed herself.

"I'll just..." she began, before realising that Sherlock was not even listening to her. So what was new? When did Sherlock ever have any interest in anything she had to say?

Molly turned and walked quickly to the office, managing to close the door just before bursting into tears. She was used to Sherlock's rude manner, and normally was able to tolerate him. But not today, not when she was at her most emotionally vulnerable. She sobbed quietly into her hands, more than anything hating herself for loving a man who gave her nothing in return. She deserved this pain, it was her punishment for behaving like a compete fool in the presence of someone who was far too good for her.

Molly was not sure how many minutes passed before the door to the office suddenly opened. She looked up from the desk to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway.

"Thank you Miss Hooper for your time," he said, "could you please make sure..."

He stopped as he noticed her tear-stained face and pink eyes. Molly wiped a tissue quickly down both cheeks, wishing he had not found her in this state.

"Is everything alright?" Mycroft enquired.

Molly did not even have the emotional strength to lie to him, despite him being a virtual stranger. Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable and alone.

"Is there any reason why your brother is always so horrible? Is he actually incapable of ever being kind to somebody?" Molly said, breathless sobs stilting her speech.

She looked at Mycroft. He did not even react, let alone reply. He was the most emotionless person Molly had ever met. It was as if he were incapable of reacting to anything.

"I'm not stupid," Molly continued, "I know Sherlock doesn't give a toss about me, but I thought under the circumstances he might have perhaps tried to make the effort to be nice."

Mycroft shifted awkwardly to lean himself against the wall. He was not used to situations like this, outbursts of female emotion was something he rarely encountered. The women he came across at work were all very similar to himself - calm, emotionless, non-responsive, icy cold. That was probably why he had employed them. Tears and upsets about men was not something he witnessed in his female staff.

"I would not worry yourself too much about Sherlock, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said monotonously, "being sensitive is not exactly his greatest skill."

"So what about these great skills of observation he is supposed to possess, Mr. Holmes?" demanded Molly, her upset suddenly being tempered with anger. "Can he not even see how upset I am at the moment?"

A fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm her, and Molly turned away to hide her face.

"My mum has just died, Mr. Holmes," she sobbed, "I buried her only two days ago. And Sherlock thinks that was my holiday? He has no idea of what I'm feeling right now."

Mycroft did not say a word as she cried steadily, tears soaking into the tissue pressed against her face. When she began to calm, he responded.

"Sorry to hear that, Miss Hooper," he said softly, his voice still cold but a slight gentleness entering his tone.

Molly turned to look at him. It seemed suddenly very odd to be pouring her heart out to a man who was basically a completely stranger. She had met him once before, possibly twice, but knew absolutely nothing about him.

"How do you stand him?" Molly asked. "You're his brother but he seems to have no ability to care about anyone?"

Mycroft gave Molly an ironic smile.

"Sherlock and I have never exactly indulged in discussing our personal feelings," Mycroft said, "If I wanted sympathy or a kindly word, Sherlock is not the person I would go to."

"So who do you go to, when you need sympathy and kindness?" Molly asked.

Mycroft's eyes bored into hers. "I look after myself, Miss Hooper," he said crisply.

What a strange and dysfunctional pair of men, Molly thought to herself. She stepped forward, closer to Mycroft, and looked at him properly for the first time ever. In this moment of sadness she suddenly felt unexpectedly close to him. He was lonely and isolated just like her, perhaps they had more in common than she had ever realised.

It was hard to believe he and Sherlock were brothers; physically they were so different. Whilst Sherlock seemed youthful with his full head of dark hair and nervous energy, his brother seemed much older and more sedate, his eyes piercing and his manner rigidly composed. There was something very mysterious about him, Molly decided, every feeling and emotion he possessed locked away behind an icy exterior. Who was this man really?

Mycroft, aware of Molly's studying eyes, gave her the briefest of sympathetic smiles.

"I am sorry about your mother, Miss Hooper," he said, "and I'm sorry if Sherlock and I have caused you any upset. I can assure you it was never my intention to intrude on your grief."

Molly's sadness started to drain as quickly as it had appeared. It did not take much to strengthen her spirits, a little kindness and a few soft words were all she needed.

"Thank you," she replied, before stopping with unexpected surprise. Amongst the torrent of emotions raging in her body, the most unexpected feeling was stirring deep within her. She looked again at Mycroft Holmes with new appraising eyes. Whilst he was completely different from Sherlock, there was no denying his elegant appearance and handsome features.

Molly took a step towards him, bringing her body into close proximity with his. Nothing escaped the notice of Mycroft; he frowned questioningly at her, asking wordlessly what she was doing.

Molly was not thinking very clearly, but she knew in that moment what she wanted to do. With a sudden bold decisiveness, she stepped forward once again and moved her face to meet Mycroft's, their lips brushing very briefly before he withdrew.

"I don't think, Miss Hooper, that this is a very sensible idea," he said firmly, his face serious and his jaw determined.

Molly did not need to be told, she knew full well that this was not a sensible idea. Kissing the brother of her long-term secret love, in a moment of vulnerability, was utter madness, but the raging fire in her stomach could not resist him.

Molly pressed herself forward again, finding his lips, and kissing his closed mouth with force. She breathed in the scent of his body, the natural aroma of masculinity and musk. She kissed him again, willing a response, gently pressing her body against his.

She detected just the tiniest hint of resistance; his lips parting marginally, allowing just a taste of the warmth that lay beyond his cold exterior. Molly kissed Mycroft more urgently now, her mind and body desperate for just the tiniest hint of affection. Her boldness was rewarded ever so slightly; his mouth began to respond and open, enough to allow her access. With lust pounding in her veins, Molly slid her tongue into Mycroft's mouth, kissing him deeply, her hands shaking as she ran them roughly across his chest, up his arms and down his back. She pushed herself against him, pressing her breasts firmly into his torso, willing him desperately to take her in his arms and respond with the same degree of physical passion.

The door to the office suddenly opened and Mycroft and Molly parted as if electrocuted. Sherlock was in the door, his eyes focused on something in his hand.

"We've got plenty to be working with here, Mycroft" he said excitedly, "let's get back to Baker Street."

"Certainly," Mycroft replied curtly, seemingly totally unruffled by the unexpected advances of Molly Hooper.

Mycroft turned to look at Molly, although this time he did not meet her eyes.

"As I was saying, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, "If you could forward me a full autopsy report as soon as it is prepared I would be most grateful."

Without another word he turned on his heel and left, taking Sherlock with him, leaving behind Molly who was feeling more confused and bewildered than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello everyone and thank you so much to everyone who has chosen to follow this story, and those who have submitted reviews. My apologies for the slow update, I have a very demanding job and sadly cannot devote as much time as I would like to regular writing!_

_I really hope you all enjoy part 2, although I cannot promise super-quick updates, part 3 is on its way. As always, reviews mean the world so please, please spare a moment to let me know what you think._

* * *

The journey back to Baker Street was undertaken in silence, both brothers completely lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock was excited, the fire of curiosity dancing wildly in his stomach. A political assassination was not of particular interest to him, but viewing the body had been illuminating. Something told him that they were about to embark on a case of unexpected complexity and fascination. He was so wrapped up in his own ponderings that he barely even noticed that Mycroft was unusually quiet.

Mycroft was an expert at maintaining an exterior facade of icy cool, regardless of how he felt inside. He was grateful for that skill at the present moment, as he felt distinctly unruffled and did not feel inclined to be probed by Sherlock. He and his brother were not in the habit of discussing their personal feelings, but Sherlock was always ready to scrutinise him if he believed there was something interesting to hear. Mycroft's unexpected encounter with Molly had left him uncharacteristically lost for words. Silly girl must have been in a bad state to act so stupidly, throwing herself at someone she barely knew. But Mycroft was more disturbed by his own response; why had he not pushed the girl away instantly? Fooling around with women was most certainly not his style. In fact, very few women every interested him in the slightest. Mycroft's life was far too busy and his position far too important to waste time fussing about women. It never ceased to amaze Mycroft over the years how many people he had seen throw away promising careers due to a moment of foolishness with a girl. When these cases occurred, Mycroft did not feel sympathy for these men, nor did he relish gleefully over their weakness. He felt nothing except scorn for their pathetic lack of self- control and their willingness to risk everything for a casual dalliance.

Mycroft stared out of the car window, gazing vaguely at the passing sights as he remained deep in thought. He could still feel the warmth on his face where Molly's lips had made contact. He could still sense on his body where Molly's urgent and desiring limbs had pressed against him, her tiny grasping hands touching him and making his skin tingle. What was unnerving Mycroft more than anything was the fact that he had responded to her; he had actually enjoyed those unexpected few seconds of passion. He had made a decision many years ago that personal relationships brought nothing but problems, exposing a person's vulnerabilities and weakening their power. He had lived by this ethos for so long that it was a great shock to suddenly have his most private and sensual side so suddenly reawakened.

"What's wrong with you?" A sudden voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Mycroft had almost forgotten Sherlock was there. He turned and met his brother's questioning stare with a steely gaze.

"Nothing," Mycroft replied politely, "just a little preoccupied, a lot of work still to do. Now, shall we discuss the body?"

* * *

Exactly one week later, Mycroft was lying in his bed, a humid night rendering him deeply uncomfortable. He eventually fell into a shallow, disturbed sleep, the stifling air around him making it difficult to get comfortable. Through the thick air came the sound of a sharp ring: Mycroft's mobile phone sprang into life and forced him into full wakefulness. Mycroft glanced irritably at the clock. 2.17am.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath as he snapped the phone open. "Yes? Who is it?"

"Sorry to wake you, sir," came the voice of an apologetic Anthea, who had worked for Mycroft long enough to recognise when he was irritated, "but it's happened again. Another assassination."

Mycroft felt as if his stomach had dropped out of his body. Any last dregs of sleepiness were gone in an instant.

"Who?" He asked urgently.

"The Defence Minister, sir," replied Anthea, her voice unusually grave, "and we've received communication from someone claiming responsibility. The content of the email we've been sent is very troubling."

Mycroft was out of bed and walking to the bathroom as he spoke, not wanting to waste a second.

"Send my..." He began, before Anthea interrupted.

"The car is already on its way, sir," Anthea said, "I was sure you would want to be here urgently."

"Thank you," Mycroft said politely, before hanging up the phone and beginning to get ready as quickly possible. Two political assassinations in one week, exactly seven days apart, both important cabinet ministers. Mycroft knew this was serious, most certainly one of the most serious problems it was likely he had ever faced. This had to be stopped immediately.

The rest of the morning passed with an especially irritating air of déjà vu. Telephone calls, press releases, statements, security checks. With every job Mycroft ticked off his list, he could not help feeling annoyed that he had done all this before. This feeling was only compounded when he found himself at 9.15am in a taxi, Sherlock by his side, heading towards the mortuary.

"You never did tell me what you spotted on the body we examined last week, Sherlock," Mycroft said slightly irritably.

"That's because I wasn't ready to share it with you," replied Sherlock, his blasé manner annoying Mycroft even more.

"This is not a game, Sherlock," snapped Mycroft, "if you have information, you are duty bound to tell me!"

"Patience, Mycroft," Sherlock replied softly, a superior smile lurking around his lips, "once we view today's corpse, I'll have a better idea of what I saw last week means. Hopefully Molly might be a little more help to us this time."

"Hmmm, yes," replied Mycroft vaguely, the mention of Molly throwing his focus entirely. In the frantic rush of the morning, he had forgotten what else a trip to the mortuary meant, something he was certainly not going to confide in Sherlock. He felt slightly uneasy at seeing Molly Hooper again. It was not that Mycroft was nervous or was embarrassed around her; the mere thought of that was ridiculous. Mycroft knew that he was more than capable of handling anybody, including emotionally volatile girls who did silly things when upset. What Mycroft was more perturbed by was his own personal feelings. He was so used to being totally in control that he found it very uncomfortable to experience sensations that were unfamiliar to him. However, forewarned was forearmed and Mycroft was sure that such a strange turn of events was unlikely to happen again.

* * *

Molly was in a state of panic when she realised Sherlock and his brother were on their way to the mortuary. She had been plagued with embarrassment ever since their last visit, and the thought of having to face Mycroft Holmes again was mortifying. What on earth had possessed her? Molly was not afraid of harmless flirting, but to throw herself into the arms of a complete stranger was so unlike her. And of all people to choose, she had gone for Sherlock's older brother, the brother of the man she had wanted for years. Molly had no idea what Mycroft did for a living, but it struck her that he was quite important. So not just Sherlock's brother, but a high ranking official as well. She wanted to curl up and die every time she thought about it.

Molly wondered what the best thing to do was. She was a person who hated the tension of an atmosphere and the stress of knowing what another person was thinking. Perhaps if she was brave and simply tackled the problem head-on and apologised to Mycroft for her behaviour, the air would be cleared and it could be forgotten about. But in reality, Molly knew it was unlikely she could do this. Mycroft Holmes was far too imposing and ever so slightly intimidating. Molly decided the best thing to do was to behave normally and pretend nothing had happened. She suspected that it was very unlikely Mycroft himself would bring it up, so if she simply kept quiet, they could both avoid an embarrassing situation.

The doors banged open and Molly felt her face turn crimson as both Holmes brothers entered the mortuary. Sherlock always made her feel giddy, but now she had the added problem of his brother being present as well. Molly smiled politely, carefully avoiding looking directly at Mycroft.

"Good morning Sherlock, good morning Mr. Holmes," she said with exaggerated politeness, "here to see your latest victim?"

"Certainly am, Molly," replied Sherlock, his quick eyes already darting over the corpse that lay before them, his interest in any further conversation immediately evaporating.

Molly could see there was no point continuing to speak as Sherlock was now engrossed in the body. She watched as he lowered his head and began to study the corpse, examining the fingers and hair of the victim intently. Molly took a step back and found herself standing next to Mycroft, his body bolt upright in a stiff posture. Molly felt the warmth in her cheeks beginning to rise again, knowing and feeling that Mycroft was so close to her. She wondered for a moment if their arms were touching, but a discreet glance showed her that this was not the case; if was as if Mycroft's body was glowing with heat, the very aura of his figure next to hers making her highly aware of his presence.

Molly noticed that Mycroft had not spoken to her at all. She wondered if he had decided to adopt the same tactic of pretending that absolutely nothing had happened. She could not help but also wonder what he was thinking, and what opinion he really had of her. It seemed likely that he thought of her as an idiot, a strange and desperate woman who acted irrationally. Molly tried to discreetly look at him out of the corner of her eye, to try and gauge what Mycroft was thinking. But his face and posture were completely expressionless, not a single emotion visible or any obvious feeling displayed. Interesting case for a psychologist, Molly thought to herself. This man was clearly deeply emotionally repressed, or else unusually adept at hiding his feelings.

"Molly?" Sherlock unexpectedly asked, causing her to jump ever so slightly where she stood. The tiny movement caused her arm to brush against Mycroft's, a little spark of electricity passing between them.

"Yes?" She asked, feeling flustered.

"Could you possibly fetch the autopsy notes from last week? The ones done on the Foreign Secretary? I want to compare a few points."

"Of course, Sherlock," Molly replied, turning briskly and walking towards the office where all the autopsy reports were kept. It was a relief to escape the silent, imposing figure of Mycroft, his every thought a deep and silent secret.

Molly entered the office, walked to the filing cabinet and began to quickly skim her fingers through the papers, looking for the right file. She was just laying her hands on the correct document, when the office door opened. She turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, his stony face now displaying a tight smile.

"Sorry to pressurise you Miss. Hooper," he said politely, "but according to Sherlock, if he doesn't see the information he needs immediately, he will be unable to solve this case. I've no doubt my brother is exaggerating slightly, but under the circumstances, I'm not willing to take the risk."

Molly handed over the file, her hands shaking nervously.

"That's everything he needs, Mr. Holmes," she said shakily.

Mycroft took the file sharply and returned to the mortuary to hand the documents to Sherlock. Molly was about to heave a sigh of relief before her stomach did a flip; Mycroft was returning to the office. He had got what he came to fetch, what did he want now? Mycroft re-entered the office, pushing the door closed as he entered. Molly found herself taking a step backwards, his very presence making her feel deeply intimidated. He was quite tall but slender, and yet he seems to fill the entire room. Molly felt as if his presence had managed to infiltrate every cornered of the office.

"Thank you again for all your help, Miss. Hooper," Mycroft said politely, "I can assure you that every assistance at this time is greatly appreciated."

"It's not a problem," Molly replied, aware that her voice was trembling slightly. She looked up at him, meeting his cool expressionless eyes for the first time that day. He was more handsome than she had given him credit for, his sharp cheekbones and elegant posture giving him a glowing aura of attractiveness. Molly could not stand the tension between them anymore, she had to say something.

"Mr. Holmes," she burst out, her tone urgent, "I really feel I must apologise to you."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Whatever for?" he asked, making Molly want to scream. He must surely know exactly way tsetse was referring to.

"I want to apologise for the way I behaved last time you were here," Molly continued, looking at the floor in embarrassment, "I must have put you in the most awkward situation, and I'm really sorry."

There was an awkward silence as Molly's words reminded them both of the brief moment of passion they had shared only one week ago. It was Mycroft who broke the peace.

"You have no need to apologise, Miss. Hooper," he said softly, "I appreciate under the circumstances that you were feeling vulnerable, it really is nothing to be ashamed of."

Molly was embarrassed to find her eyes filling with tears again. She looked up at Mycroft, hoping he might understand.

"It was really wrong of me to put you in that situation," she choked, trying to smother her tears, "but it's so hard when you feel so terribly lonely."

Mycroft nodded slowly, the hard ice in his eyes softening slightly.

"You're right," he replied, his voice now distant and gentle, "loneliness can be a very difficult burden to carry."

Molly and Mycroft looked at each other, their eyes fixing on the other, both acutely aware of the shared emotions they were experiencing. Molly felt as if she were in a daze as she stepped forward and, despite her intelligence and logic telling her not to do what she was about to do, pressing her body against Mycroft's yet again. Their lips met and they began to kiss each other passionately, their mouths open and their tongues touching. Molly still sensed a stiffness and resistance in Mycroft's body, but this time, something had definitely changed between them. As she kissed him again and again, she felt his warm lips responding, hungry with the need to feel the love and companionship.

The kiss of a man who was as lonely as Molly.


End file.
